My Wife, Chainsmoker

My Wife, Chainsmoker
by Falling Ashes

As was quite common when out driving with my lovely wife Caroline, it was
time to stop and buy cigarettes.  Not a pack, mind you, but it was carton
time, which came roughly every other day.  We always went to the local chain
store Cigarettes Cheaper because, well, the name says it all.  Well, not all.
Also Caroline could smoke inside.  As I pulled inside the parking space, C
(as I like to call her) jumped out of the car, Camel Filter clenched between
her yellowed teeth (She used to smoke Marlboro Reds but now claims that, not
only do Camels taste better, but they last longer).  As she was walking
inside, I was still taking the keys out of the ignition.  I followed her in.
As I walked in the door, she was at the register, dragging deeply on her
beloved Camel as Fred the clerk (who we know quite well by now) was laying
the usual on the counter: one carton of Camel Filters, and one carton of
Camel Straights.

"That will be $43.92" said Fred.

Caroline's half-smoked cigarette almost dropped out of her mouth as she
gasped at the price.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, ten bucks off all Camel cartons, this week only."

C pulled the cig from her lips and, while exhaling, stammered "Well, h-how
many do you have left?"

"About ten of each."

"I"ll take them."

Less than a minute and over $400 bucks later, C is back in the passenger
seat, with an almost fully-smoked Camel dangling, and a big bag full of
cartons in her lap. She is rapidly opening what was, a few minutes ago, her
last pack.  She pulls a new one out, sticks it in her mouth, and lights it
with her previous cig.  She pulls deep on the new one for four or five
seconds, exhales from her nostrils in awe-inspiring twin plumes, and while
doing so, takes a last, desperate drag from her now-spent predecessor (which
is basically a filter with a half-inch cherry).  She places the fresh
cigarette in her mouth and stubs out the poor, misshapen, and completely
brown butt of the old one in an ashtray overflowing with its identical
friends.  After taking a gigantic triple-pump, she squeals with laughter
(which, as always, turns into a coughing fit), giddy over her goldmine of
smokes.  She looks over at me and exclaims "Time to go home, babe, you're
in for a treat."  I floored it.


What does she look like, you ask?  Well, to me, perfect.  27 years old.
5'5" tall.  Blonde shoulder-length hair.  Big, inquisitive eyes with
impossibly long natural lashes.  Small, button-cute nose.  Full, luscious
lips.  Large C-cups with pencil-eraser nipples.  Taut stomach.  Bald pussy.
Slightly plump, but not big, heart-shaped ass.  Shapely legs.  Adorable feet.  

Sounds perfect, right?  So how did I win her affections?  Well, it was easy
enough.  I asked her out, something that rarely happened to her.  It turns
out that most men are turned off by one or more of the following:
unrepentant chain-smoking; hacking coughs; wheezing; a lower-register, almost
manly, voice; smelly hair and breath (okay, her whole body stinks like a
filled-to-the-rim ashtray); yellow teeth, nostrils, and fingers; a grayish
skin pallor; small wrinkles at the edges of her mouth and eyes; lack of
interest in any kind of exercise.   

I, on the other hand, simply adore everything about her.  In fact, it was her
vociferous smoking that initially attracted me to her.  A long-time smoke
fetishist, any girl that smokes would immediately gain my attention.
Caroline, though, was different.  A girl lighting a cigarette with the butt
of her previous one is always cause for a double take.  Caroline does this
EVERY TIME.  That's right, folks.  One flick of the lighter when she first
wakes up (after an extended hacking cough period, of course), and it is back
in the drawer with you, Mr. Zippo, where you shall remain until tomorrow
morning (Although there is a lighter at every ashtray, just in case).  How is
this possible?  It is quite easy, because she avoids any place that doesn't
allow smoking.  Okay, okay.  Sometimes we fly on a plane or go to a movie or
go to a non-smoking residence.  Any of these require nicotine patches and/or
gum.  Once a non-smoking activity (Task? Chore?) is completed, the chain
begins anew, my friend.

How is it to live with such a slave to cigarettes?  Daunting, at first.
Being a non-smoker, it was quite a task when I first moved in with her.  Yes,
we had been dating for a while, but it is hard to truly know someone until
you live with them.  Indeed, I was totally unprepared for the extent of her
smoking.  At the time, when she stayed at my place, except for smoky
lovemaking sessions, she would politely go outside to smoke, where she spent
most of the day and night.  Her place, now our place, on the other hand, is
shrouded in clouds of smoke, with yellow walls.  Ashtrays are everywhere. Not
little bar ashtrays, but gigantic, punch-bowl sized ashtrays.  All of them
are full to overflowing.  In each bathroom, there is an ashtray near the sink
(she smokes when she brushes her teeth), next to the toilet, on her makeup
table, on the edge of the bathtub, and in the shower (one of her favorite
places to smoke, rendering soap and shampoo practically useless).  Unlike
some smokers, who can smell fresh and clean upon exiting the shower until
their next cigarette, Caroline is truly always smoky.  Although it is a nice,
large house, complete with maid, it is nearly impossible to keep clean.
Having made a fortune and wisely cashing out, C no longer has to work.  So,
in turn, she rarely leaves the house, aside from a night on the town.  She is
not a careful smoker, by any means.  How could she be, with such a habit?
Frequently forgetting to ash, and often dangling, she drops ashes everywhere.
The carpet and hardwood floors have grey patches and burn marks everywhere.
In some cases she just drops her butt on the floor and mashes it out with her
heal.  Some would find this unacceptable; I find it endearing.  The white
sheets in our bedroom look pathetic.  Before going to sleep, she likes to
suck down five or six cigs in rapid succession in bed.  She also frequently
wakes up at night to have a smoke (this despite wearing the patch to bed).
Burn  marks, holes, ashes, and even butts that don't make it to one of the
THREE ashtrays on the nightstand, can be found on our sheets.  That is all I
egg her on about.  I don't want to see the house go up in flames, and
neither does she.


How long has she been smoking?  Well, believe it or not, but she's a late
bloomer, having started in college when she was 20.  Like a lot of college
kids, she first tried a cigarette while drinking at a bar.  Unlike most,
smoking became not merely a social habit, but an obsession.  C tells me that
the first time she tried a cigarette, well, she'll tell you:  "The first time
I tried a cigarette was the most wonderful experience of my life, save for my
wedding day.  It was a Marlboro Light.  I naturally took to inhaling it. I
didn't cough or choke at all, and I sucked it down in about three minutes,
instantly demanding another.  And that was it.  After that second delightful
cigarette, I bought a pack.  I rapidly became a two-pack a day girl and, soon
enough, the Lights weren't doing it for me.  I made the leap to Marlboro
Reds.  I never even considered 100's because they look trashy to me.  My
parents, both non-smokers, became increasingly distraught with my devotion to
tobacco, and they still can't get over it.  Anyway, this being college, I
had free time galore.  Two packs of Reds became three.  I started losing
friends who could no longer stand to be around me.  Who needs them anyway.
All I wanted was my little ciggies, who brought me so much pleasure.  Time
spent in class became excruciating.  I got some nicotine gum to help me
through.  With my consumption of cigarettes increasing on a daily basis
throughout college (what, you thought I would stop at a measly three
packs-per-day?) I started to become distraught.  Not at what the cigarettes
were doing to me or costing me, no way, but what I would do post-graduation.
No one smokes at work anymore. Not around here, anyway.  Would it be possible
to take a job where I can't smoke constantly?  No, of course not.  So I
started my own business.  It did very well, and it seemed to grow as much as
my appetite for ciggies.  So here I am!  Rich beyond my wildest dreams
without even having to work anymore.  A wonderful, caring husband.  Able to
smoke as much as I can handle, which, at this moment, can be as much as a
carton a day, alternating between filtered and non-filtered Camels.  Oh yes,
Camels, I forgot to explain that.  In one of the rare moments that I was
completely out of cigarettes, a friend offered me a Camel, and I reluctantly
accepted.  After that first inhale, I knew I would never smoke a Marlboro
again."

Thanks, baby, but while you're at it, would you care to explain some
of the negative effects of chain-smoking that you've experienced?  "Sure,
hon.  For me, of course, the positives far outweigh the negatives.  If that
weren't the case, I wouldn't smoke.  Sheesh, that's a terrible thought.
But here goes:  People stare, scold, and shake their heads at me.  I've lost
friends and family who are disgusted by my habit.  Physically, I look a lot
older than I am.  I'm constantly out of breath.  Formerly simple tasks like
walking upstairs are now excruciating.  I cannot laugh without coughing.  I
cannot cough without hacking.  I cannot hack without spitting something up.
In fact, I can't do much of anything without coughing.  My cough, my
cigarettes, and my wonderful husband are my three loyal, constant companions;
my three amigos.  But none of that matters.  My three amigos are all I want;
all I need.  They make me who I was, who I am, who I strive to be.  I love my
life, and I love myself.  I am as close to sheer happiness as a human can
possibly be.  I am Caroline.  I am C.  I am a wife, a lover, a smoker.  A
smokelover.  A chainsmoker.  And no one can ever take that away from me."

I couldn't have said it better myself.  I love you Caroline.